James Twining - The Geneva Deception

‘Throw what away?’

‘Oh, you don’t understand. You’re too young.’ He gave an exasperated sigh, throwing his hands up as if she had somehow let him down. ‘You don’t know what it means to be old, to be out of breath from tying your shoelaces, to not be able to take a piss without it hurting.’

‘What’s that got to do…?’

‘My books, my research-everything I’d ever worked for…my whole life. It would all have been for nothing if they’d leaked my involvement.’

‘Your books?’ she repeated with an empty laugh. ‘Your books!’

‘Don’t you see?’ he pleaded, a desperate edge to his voice now. ‘I had no choice. My reputation was all I had left.’

‘No,’ she said, with a broken smile. ‘You had me.’

Quai du Mont Blanc, Geneva 19th March-11.16 a.m.

There was a definite spring in Earl Faulks’s step that morning, despite the slightly bitter taste left by Deena Carroll’s sermonising earlier. After everything he’d done for them over the years…the ungrateful bitch. The truth was that, having thought about it, he was rather glad she’d turned him down. With Klein as good as dead, he was no use to him any more anyway, so why do her any favours? Better to give someone else a sniff of the action.

Besides, he could afford to take a small risk. Things were going well. Much better, in fact than he had anticipated. His courier had cleared the border at Lake Lugano that morning and was due down at the Free Port any time now. In Rome, meanwhile, events were unfolding far more quickly and dramatically than he had ever dreamt would be possible. That was the beauty of the Italians, he mused. They were an amaretto paper of a race -ready to ignite at the faintest spark.

There had been that unhelpful little episode with the kouros at the Getty, of course, although for the moment at least, tempers seemed to have cooled. Having seen the ivory mask, Verity had understood that there was a far greater prize at stake here than a dry academic debate over a statue’s marble type and muscle tone. Barring any last-minute disaster, she was due in from Madrid around lunchtime the following day.

Until then he had an auction to prepare for, lots to examine, commission bids to place…On cue, his car drew up outside Sotheby’s. He sat back, waiting for his chauffer to jog round and open his door, but then waved him away when his phone began to ring. An American number that he didn’t recognise. A call he wanted to take.

‘Faulks.’

‘This is Kezman,’ the voice replied.

‘Mr Kezman…’ Faulks checked his watch in surprise-a classic fluted steel Boucheron. ‘Thank you for returning my call. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so late.’

‘I’m in the casino business. This is early,’ he growled.

‘Mr Kezman, I don’t know if you know…’

‘Yeah, I know who you are,’ he shot back. ‘Avner Klein’s a personal friend. He told me about you.’

‘And he told me about you,’ purred Faulks. ‘Said you were a shrewd collector.’

‘Don’t blow smoke up my ass. I pay people for that and I guarantee they’ve all got bigger tits than you. If you’ve got something to sell, sell it.’

‘Fair enough. Here’s the pitch: seven and a half million and your name in lights.’

‘My name’s in ten foot neon out on the Strip already.’ Kezman gave an impatient laugh. ‘Tell me about the money.’

‘Seven and a half million dollars,’ Faulks repeated slowly. ‘Risk free.’

‘Why don’t you leave the odds to the experts?’ Kezman snapped.

‘How would you price a federal government guarantee?’

There was a pause.

‘Go on.’

Faulks smiled. He had his attention now.

‘An…item has come into my possession. An item of immense historical and cultural significance. I want you to buy it off me for ten million dollars.’

‘Sure. Why not make it twenty?’ Kezman gave a hollow laugh. ‘The global economy’s on its knees, but let’s not let small details like that get in the way.’

‘Then, you’re going to donate it to Verity Bruce at the Getty,’ he continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘She will value it at fifty million, its true price. This will lead the IRS…’

‘To give me a seventeen and a half million tax credit for having made a fifty-million-dollar charitable donation,’ Kezman breathed, his flippant tone vanishing.

‘Which, subtracting the ten you will have paid me, nets out at a seven and a half million profit, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Not to mention the PR value of the coverage that will be triggered by your generosity,’ Faulks added. ‘Hell, they’d probably name a wing after you, if you asked.’

‘How firm is the valuation?’

‘Do you know Verity Bruce?’ Faulks asked.

‘I had breakfast with her two weeks ago.’

‘She’s due here tomorrow to authenticate the piece. Something this rare isn’t affected by shortterm economic factors. The value will hold.’

Kezman was silent for a few moments. Faulks waited, knowing that his next question would reveal how well he’d played his hand.

‘When would you need the money?’

Blackjack.

‘A few days. A week at most.’

‘If Verity okays it, I’m in,’ Kezman confirmed. ‘You have my private number now. Just get her to call me when she’s seen it.’

‘Wait! Don’t you even want to know what it is?’ Faulks asked with a frown.

A pause.

‘Will I make any more if I do?’

‘No,’ Faulks conceded.

‘Then why should I care?’

Via del Governo Vecchio, Rome 19th March-11.32 a.m.

The streets were dark and narrow here, the buildings seeming to arch together over Tom and Allegra’s heads like trees kissing over a country lane. It was busy too; people carefully picking their way along the narrow pavements, dodging around the occasional dog turds and an elderly woman who was furiously scrubbing her marble doorstep. The traffic, meanwhile, was backed up behind a florist’s van which had stopped to make a delivery. Alerted by the relentless sounding of impatient car horns, a few people were leaning curiously over their balconies, some observing events with a detached familiarity, others hurling insults at the van driver for his selfishness. Glancing up, he made an obscene gesture, and pulled away.

Allegra was silent, her eyes rarely lifting from her shoes. She was hurting, Tom knew, probably even blaming herself for Aurelio’s betrayal, as if his selfishness and pride was somehow her fault. He tried to think of something to say that might comfort her and relieve her imagined guilt. But he couldn’t. Not without lying. The truth was that in time the floodwaters of her anger and confusion would recede, leaving behind them the tidemark of their lost friendship. And whatever he said, that would never fade. He, of all people, bore the fears of betrayal.

‘What other Phidias pieces are there?’ he asked, stepping to one side to let a woman past holding on to five yapping dogs, the leashes stretching from her hands like tentacles.

‘There’s a torso of Athena in the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris that’s been attributed to him,’ she replied without looking up. ‘And they found a cup inscribed with his name in the ruins of the workshop at Olympia where he assembled the statue of Zeus.’

‘But nothing like the mask?’

‘Not even close.’ She shook her head. ‘If Aurelio’s right, it’s priceless.’

‘Everything has a price,’ Tom smiled. ‘The trick is finding someone willing to pay it.’

‘Maybe that’s what Cavalli was doing the night he was killed,’ she said, grimacing as an ancient Vespa laboured past, its wheezing engine making the windows around them rattle under the strain. ‘Meeting a buyer. Or at least someone he thought was a buyer.’